


My Wife

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5893024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross discovered early that he took a peculiar pleasure in using the words ‘my wife’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year, when I was still trying to deny that I was being sucked into Poldark. Re-discovered it, and decided, with mmmuses’s support, that it was worth posting.

Ross discovered early that he took a peculiar pleasure in using the words ‘my wife’. It was not a pleasure he had expected, but nevertheless there was a distinct satisfaction, a sensation almost of pride, in speaking of ‘my wife’. Whether to others, when he introduced her – ‘you know my wife, Demelza’ – or when he spoke to her, the words seemed to satisfy something within him that he had not realised was in need of satisfaction. 

_My wife, Demelza_ , he thought on their wedding night. She lay in the bed beside him, asleep or nearly so. It did not bring him pleasure that first night, when he stayed awake long hours wondering if he had done right. He desired her; that much was certain, and the feel of her body beneath his made hot fire burn through his veins. She had been unsure, that first night, eager to learn and utterly desirable, with that strange mix of boldness and shyness that she had shown. This night she had been eager still, though less nervous. She had let him lay her bare on his bed – their bed, now – her hair spread out on the pillow, a ring shining bright on her finger. 

His wife, Demelza. Did he love her? he asked himself. No. But she was an agreeable companion, and marriages had been built on less. She was clever and quick, full of life and energy, and they knew they could live together. Once the step had been taken, marriage had been the only choice that he could have made and still be able to respect himself. 

In the morning she woke slowly, and Ross allowed himself the luxury of watching her. She shifted a little in the bed, and she yawned without opening her eyes. Then she seemed to remember, and she blinked up at him, wide-eyed now, her hair a tangled mess. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. She seemed to be waiting for Ross, and he knew he must help her – poor Demelza, who had looked so pale and almost scared, yesterday in the church. Why had she married him? he wondered. She’d said yes when he proposed it, and she’d seemed happy enough in the handful of days before the meagre wedding, but he’d not asked why. Nor had she; she had accepted it as she seemed to accept many of his demands, with a reasonably good humour and barely a glimmer of her true feelings.

“Good morning, wife,” he said, because he could think of nothing else to say. Then he bent his head and kissed her, for kissing her was never a difficulty. 

That was the first time he said it, but there were of course many more occasions and each time, inexplicably, his pleasure grew. “My wife, Demelza,” he said, many times, introducing her needlessly to people she already knew, simply for the pleasure of saying it. To Zacky Martin and his wife, and the Daniels, and many others who worked at Wheal Leisure when they should happen to meet. “My wife, Demelza,” he said, and if at first Demelza turned red whenever he said it, she seemed to grow used to it as the summer wore on.

It seemed to help her, too, when he spoke to her as ‘my wife’. Despite her obvious happiness, he could see an insecurity in her that he disliked, for she was his wife now, and he wanted to try to show her how he valued her, how she pleased him. He might not love her, but he did care for her, and he wished to make her happy. ‘My wife’, he called her, particularly when trying to stop her doing something that Demelza Poldark, mistress of Nampara, had no business doing. 

She tried, good girl that she was, and she was such a quick learner. Determined that he would have no cause to be ashamed of her, she began to take care with her language and her actions. Verity’s visit helped tremendously, once Demelza got over her anxiety. What happened between them to engender friendship he did not know, and neither woman would tell him, but he was glad of the result, and Verity helped Demelza in ways Ross couldn’t.

‘Demelza, my wife’. The words did not lose interest for him; his pleasure and pride in Demelza as his wife only seemed to grow. She grew more confident – with him, at least – and her happiness was a tangible thing in the house. She had always hummed and sung a little, under her breath as if used to a blow if anybody caught her at it, but now she lifted her voice and Ross could hear it from the garden, when he came home from the mine. Not a well-trained voice, but pure and simple. He found himself quite pleased that his wife was contented enough to sing, sweet simple Cornish airs that were part of the landscape here. 

Her confidence grew. One morning in the autumn, Ross awoke early and intended to leave without awakening her. She did not stir, not until he made to pull on the shirt he’d been wearing yesterday. Then in a flash she was out of bed and before him, bare-footed and wild-haired, her nightshirt hanging from one shoulder.

“Not that one, Ross,” she told him – told him! he marvelled – and she snatched the shirt from his hands. “There’s a rip in the shoulder, I saw it yesterday.”

“It will do,” said Ross impatiently, “I’m only going down the mine.”

“What kind of a wife would I be if I let my husband go out looking like he’s nobody to look after him?” Demelza demanded, and he was taken aback by her indignation and the way she said those words – ‘my husband’ – he did not think she had ever spoken so before. No, indeed he was sure she had not. Married, and wife, those words she had used. But not husband, and it engendered an irresistible urge to kiss her. 

He was not late, he excused himself as he walked her backwards to the bed. Half an hour – or yet an hour – would change little of his day, make him late for no appointments. And Demelza was so willing, so warm in his arms. Three months they’d been married now, and his desire for her showed no signs of abating. He was glad of it; a first flush of passion so often fizzled out once it became easy and every day. He murmured ‘my wife’ into her hair, and her neck, and Demelza called his name until she could speak no more.

‘My wife, Demelza’. It never palled. The pleasure of it grew as his own contentment grew. He discovered without looking for it that he had become quite happy. Were it not for the shadow of Wheal Leisure, which must surely close soon, Ross would describe himself as contented as was possible for anyone of his character. 

Demelza fitted into his life in so many ways. She was interested in the mine, and listened to him talk of the people who depended on him. She mended his shirts and pursed her lips at him when he tracked mud across the kitchen floor. In bed there was pleasure, and an easing of loneliness in the warmth of a body beside his at night. Often, even if they began the night separated, they ended up in a tangle of limbs and hair until Ross would awaken and not be entirely sure where he ended and Demelza began. Her head on his shoulder or his chest, her arm flung across him and a leg entwined with his. He wondered if any other man had ever been kind to her; he wondered if she would respond so to _anyone_ who showed her even the kindnesses he had shown when she had still been his servant.

He wondered why the idea of that made him unhappy. She was his wife now, but he did not love her – he’d known that from the start. He cared for her, and fully intended to fulfil his responsibilities as a husband…but he did not love her, and so why did the thought of Demelza as another man’s servant, another man’s _wife_ – why did that disturb him so? He had no answer, and so did his best to put it from his mind.

It was six months past the wedding by the time Ross discovered that ‘my wife’ did not, after all, hold as much joy for him as it might. There was, he discovered quite suddenly, another endearment he wished to give to her. It was a strange discovery, standing in Trenwith with Francis beside him and Elizabeth sitting just behind Demelza, who stood looking _beautiful_ in the dress she’d kept as a secret from him. She sang, and somehow, suddenly, Ross knew that he did love her after all. The happiness he had been feeling was made absolute at the realisation. He loved her. He loved the demure mistress, the carefree girl, and the dark-eyed minx of his bedroom. He loved her teasing of him, and her temper, and her impulsiveness. 

He loved her.

And now ‘my wife’ did not seem so satisfactory. No longer did he quite feel the same pleasure in using the words, either to Demelza or to others. Oh, he could see that it would still make him proud, he would still be glad to have Demelza on his arm and to introduce her everywhere as his wife. But to Demelza herself…no, it would not do. No longer. He must say something, he thought as he watched her blushingly accept the applause of the room. Soon, something must be said. He suspected enough about how Demelza felt to be sure of a happy reception, and the words were long overdue.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” he said to her that night, when she was fast asleep, worn from the day spent, no doubt, dreading any single misstep that might – in her mind – make him ashamed of her. Ashamed of her – the idea of it stung him. He was proud of her, so very proud, and she’d been so full of strength this evening, confronted with not only the Poldark family but the Warleggans and John Treneglos and his vicious little wife. Demelza had risen to the occasion, and had not let anything make her falter. 

‘My love’, he repeated silently the next day, bidding her good morning, but some instinct withheld the words for now. Not in this house, he thought, not under Elizabeth’s roof. Demelza might take it badly, and more than ever now he wanted her happy. He would say it soon, he resolved, for six months was long enough for a wife to wait hear that she was loved, and he knew Demelza was uncertain yet of her place. 

“My love,” he muttered into her mouth, that night when she told him of the child that grew within her. “Demelza, my love. My wife, my darling.”

“Ross,” said Demelza softly, tenderly. She took his hand and brought it to her stomach, beneath her nightshirt. She was still flat, thin, but soon enough she would swell with their child. Then he kissed her again, and thought ‘my love’.


End file.
